


'Drink Van Houten's Cocoa!'

by Bergdís Myntumjólk (BergMynt)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Kink, British Comedy, British English, Child Abuse, Conspiracy, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Drug Abuse, F/M, Fix-It, Gay, Love/Hate, M/M, Mindfuck, Non-Linear Narrative, Organized Crime, Other, Platonic BDSM, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Puzzles, Realistic, Sapiosexual, Science, Slow Burn, UST, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24752797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BergMynt/pseuds/Bergd%C3%ADs%20Myntumj%C3%B3lk
Summary: This is a passionate hurtful story about brilliant crimes, quirky puzzles and the utter nonsense that ordinary people call love.I am you.What is it that truly conjoins the two extraordinarily intelligent outcasts? Sherlock goes off the deep end in the Mind Palace and drug abuse in memory of Moriarty and their confrontation; he breaks into Jim's cobweb palace and winds up wearing the crown. Desolate, his nemesis returns to the Further Mathematics in Ireland, having promised to burn the heart out of himself this time - until his own name comes up in the news.You are me.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Sebastian Moran, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Kudos: 12





	1. A Small Prologue On Cacao

**Author's Note:**

> This work is completed and consists of 249 pages. Originally written by me in Russian, it can be found here: [https://ficbook.net/readfic/3969933]. I aspire to keep up with regular (hopefully, weekly) updates, but future is unreliable. Translation is in progress, and I owe a big... a lifetime to my merciless editor. 
> 
> For I am no native speaker, I will be frightfully grateful to receive your witty corrections.
> 
> Enjoy and treat yourselves xxx

In the year 1865 (1910 according to other sources) a criminal sentenced to death received a peculiar proposition from Van Houten, the adventurous head of a bijou company managing cocoa deliveries in Europe. The deal was an exchange: the prisoner’s last words for a solid promise of a prosperous life for his children, who were to find themselves under guardianship and in care of Van Houten’s helpers. The malefactor agreed, and as he was standing on the scaffold in the minute meant for the final wish, into the crowd he shouted, ‘Drink Van Houten’s cocoa!’. The very next day his family rose from the social abyss of penury and disdain to the flourishing stratum, whilst the cocoa empire gained power and glory.  
Van Houten’s business has been thriving ever since, famous for the tender taste of its dark chocolate (and that is something I can personally vouch for).  
As for the words ‘Drink Van Houten’s cocoa!’, over the last century they have become a symbol of the desperate wish to protect the loved ones at any cost and the world’s hypocrisy against an aching human soul.


	2. Construction

This story’s timeline is integrated with the real time.

Thus, the events of the first season take place in 2010, of the second one – in 2012, of the third and fourth ones – in 2014 and 2017 accordingly.

Book One continues the original plot, beginning with autumn 2014. Book Two mostly describes the long-term aftermath of what happened in January 2017, with occasional dives into the pre-canon. Those are marked with more or less exact dates. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trailer can be found here: [https://vk.com/video244593181_456239071]  
> I promise to make an attempt at YouTube, but I have my doubts about getting kicked out because of the copyright.


	3. Let The Angels Repent

**BOOK ONE. C 7H8N4O2** ****

**Chapter I. Let The Angels Repent**

_“Nothing quite encourages as does one's first unpunished crime.”_

_― Marquis de Sade, The 120 Days of Sodom_

‘Wake the hell up, you freak!’ Sally shrieked in anger, slapping Sherlock Holmes on the face so hard his head jerked on the dirty pavement. His eyes remained closed. The officer’s voice had a hysterical pitch to it, which was out of her routine. As if in an unspoken agreement, Gregory Lestrade and John Watson, both shattered and confused, pretended they didn’t notice it.

The doctor, bundled up in his coat, inhaled the stench of piss and wastewater under the bridge; he swallowed the bitter flavour of the burning leaves in the damp chilly air – the smells of late autumn in London suburbs – and closed his eyes to ward off the thoughts that kept closing in on him. Even through the shut eyelids he could see the ends of Sally’s ruffled hair touching the gaunt face of his best friend fallen at their feet: the famous long coat soiled and filthy, mud under the nails, blushed skin thinning around the eyes. John couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in a fresh bed or taken a hot shower, couldn’t remember the beginning of this endless chase after the fading ghost of former Sherlock, who kept slipping away, crumbling through the fingers like sugar, nauseatingly viscid. He was swaddled in a heavy wool blanket of fatigue.

The phone in his pocket vibrated once again: Mycroft, restless, kept waking the Ministry people in the middle of the night, pulling the political strings. Mycroft was rescuing his brother. Sherlock was falling apart.

Gregory drew his lips. His grey hair began to resemble a snowy mist around his head; the wrinkles in the corners of his mouth hadn’t been there half a year ago. He touched the colleague’s shoulder.

‘Stop screaming, Sally,’ he said quietly. ‘Sherlock is not with us.’

‘That’s not Sherlock,’ she spat and straightened up. Casting an anxious look at Lestrade, she added,

‘I’ve always said he’s a psychopath, and psychopath he remains.’

Doctor Watson pulled out his phone and read the message:

_‘The list, John. MH’_

‘Mister Lestrade,’ he addressed the inspector, who waved him off.

‘Just call me Gregory.’

‘Gregory,’ repeated John blandly, ‘Mycroft has ordered a blood test.’

‘Who on earth would need a blood test?’ Sally snapped. ‘Even Anderson would have understood that our freak is OD’ing on another hard shit.’

Lestrade forced out something of a smile.

‘Meaning Moriarty or heroin?’

‘Cut it!’ John flared up, and the beginning of a friendly exchange broke off. He felt an urge to hurt that Sherlock-looking rag doll, to kick it with a heavy winter boot. Pulling himself together, he buried his frozen hands in the pockets and said in an almost steady voice,

‘We should get this wreck out of here. Right now. At this rate he’ll get hypothermia on top of it all.’

Lestrade bent over and grabbed Sherlock under the armpits, leaving the doctor to grip the legs of the formerly country-famous detective. The inspector grunted and forced himself to look Watson in the eye.

‘To the _Princess 1_?’ he asked.

‘To the _Princess_ ,’ John nodded.

***

The professor waited for the lecture hall to empty out, gave a curt nod to the last fumbling student, turned off the light, closed the notepad covered in scribbles on topology in general and homeomorphism in particular, and sat on the teacher’s desk. The pitch-black darkness of a November evening soaked gently into the surroundings; he took his glasses off, tossed them on the floor and rubbed his eyes wearily. The hall was suffocating: blind windows didn’t let any fresh air in, his throat was parched after solid eight hours of talking, making it hard to breathe. The professor loosened the tight knot of the tie, straightened out the collar and made an effort to cast all thoughts away, to withdraw into the silence.

The Ulster University suggested strict adherence to the day-to-day monotonous, tedious, boring – _burn the notion of boring_ – schedule. Same faces, same questions, same answers, equally shallow and mediocre. Moriarty shivered. For the first time he resorted to doing something so utterly distasteful intentionally and, to his own greatest surprise, willingly. He was trying his best to fit the pattern of these ripples on the water, transitory and predictable: waking up at the same time, greeting the rumble of a crowd flooding the room, then the next tide, and another one, every evening staying at university till late for whatever reason. Moriarty’s idle mind was winding down into languor: the feeling gnawed at him – but it was necessary.

He reached for his black leather case, clicked the lock and pulled out two dark lumps; the case joined the glasses on the floor. The professor was getting ready for the nightly performance, his legs crossed, the Charlatan on his left hand and the Dumb on the right.

‘Evening, Mr. Dumb!’ the puppet took a ceremonious bow.

‘Good evening, Charlatan, how’s your death doing?’ the other replied.

Moriarty winced, mimicking Holmes’ voice, and pulled a face very similar to the annoyed detective’s ‘I’m-surrounded-by-idiots-and-this-is-unbearable’ look.

‘If I were you, I would abstain from asking questions inappropriate for your IQ level, Mr. Dumb. I would be deeply disappointed.’

‘How come? Everyone is dying to find out where the famous Mr. Charlatan has gone!’

The puppet on the right hand jumped indignantly and opened its mouth in grotesque astonishment.

‘Where is he?’

The professor straightened up, hiding the Charlatan behind his back, and let the Dumb look around frantically, following his glance.

‘Well, where is he?’ asked the puppet on the right hand.

Moriarty shrugged his shoulders dramatically.

‘Where are you, Charlatan?’

God knows how long he had been sitting like that, still, eyes closed, rubbing his temples, in complete dark and silence, but when he was leaving the university building, professor Shei Corcoran, also known as professor James Moriarty, also featured in students’ jokes as Muppet, walked through absolutely empty halls; absolutely empty streets; to an absolutely empty house he had bought in the neighbourhood half a year ago. White walls inside and outside, the bare minimum of furniture: Moriarty denied himself the almost luxurious comfort he had considered vital in London, he welcomed the emptiness that could allow him to be refilled. The streets were powdered with light snow that wasn’t going to survive till morning.

He walked the familiar route and, like every evening, paused by the flashing sign of a small pub, shifted in the snow hesitatingly and kept going. At the sight of his door number – 221 – a barely visible shadow of pain passed over his face, as always. 

***

Mycroft Holmes, ever so composed with his perfect posture, was sitting in the Diogenes club after hours – privileges, privileges and privileges, – his bulky silhouette crooked, a whiskey on the rocks in his hand. Melting ice cubes inside were clinking softly against the glass.

Mycroft was entertaining himself in the only way he knew. He was thinking.

He was less concerned with his brother than with the reports regarding a new criminal organisation, the self-proclaimed _Wudewasa_ , coming from all parts of the UK in the last weeks. For now they seemed to be of little interest – kidnapping, ransom, ridiculous demands, minor robbery and vandalism. Still there was something about them that bothered him. Provided the notion of premonition or gut feeling could be applied to a man such as Mycroft, the faint touch of anxiety, teasing and annoying him every time the gang was mentioned, was accompanied by a presentiment that the Wudewasa were going to move on – soon, very soon. At one of the countless nights when Mycroft had to take off and ride the government cars to drag the youngster out of dens and filthy alleys, Sherlock said half-consciously: 'It’s not the fall that kills, it’s the landing'.

Upon remembering these words Mycroft shivered, and the ice in the glass tinkled gently. The Wudewasa were falling free, pulling England in, narrowing the spiral and getting closer and closer to the capital; Mycroft feared their abrupt landing would shake the country. Why exactly he was afraid of that he had difficulty explaining even to himself. That was the reason why Holmes, who couldn’t stand uncertainty and lack of information, resorted to the radical solution of the problem instead of going to Princess Grace personally, like he had done all the times before. He put the glass on the dark wood table polished to shine, a testimony to the staff’s unsettling obsession with perfect neatness. Mycroft straightened up, produced a pocket watch from the inside of his suit and looked at it.

Exactly at the moment when the second hand reached twelve, someone knocked on the door; it came open, and Mary Watson swiftly entered the room.

‘Good evening,’ greeted her the politician and gestured to the armchair opposite his.

Mary sat down and dropped her enormous backpack on the floor; a rattle of something metal inside echoed heavily in the emptiness of the club.

‘Let’s not pretend we’re at a Royal reception,’ the woman smiled. ‘Or that your night calls have ever meant good news.’

She folded her hands in her lap and, letting her glance dwell on the glass, shook her head in reproach but said nothing.

Mycroft silently sipped his whiskey, avoiding the eyes of doctor Watson’s wife – he had to spend too much time with her lately – and recollected his thoughts. He had been preparing her for this conversation for three long weeks, and now, he decided, was the right time to act. The Wudewasa problem was becoming as urgent as first aid for an internal bleeding.

‘I have to intrude upon your domesticity, Mary,’ he said finally. ‘How long?’

She stroked her round belly.

‘A month, if everything goes well.’

Mycroft frowned, ‘This is a complication.’

‘Sherlock again?’ Mary asked. ‘John texted me we have another case of drug-induced catharsis. He thinks I’m at home, and he won’t be back soon, so I’m at your disposal almost till morning.’

‘Sherlock too, but let us leave him aside for now,’ Mycroft sighed, and his companion raised her eyebrows inquiringly: what do you mean, leave him aside?

‘There is a problem requiring your intervention. I need you to get back in shape.’

If Mary had joined the politician in his moderate drinking several seconds ago, she would have definitely choked on the liquor.

‘In shape? Eight months into pregnancy?’

She smiled coldly in hope that she fell victim to a rude joke, but Mycroft nodded and kept his tone strict. ‘I am aware that I am crossing the boundaries here, Mrs. Watson.’

Mary winced; as she opened her mouth for a bitter remark, Holmes silenced her with a warning wave of his hand.

‘Nevertheless, I hope that my word has not lost its value for you and if I consider something essential, then it is such indeed.’

The smile disappeared from the woman’s face. She gave her backpack a kick.

‘You mean all that nonsense an hour ago about returning the ammo was a lie? Am I keeping it?’

Mycroft nodded again.

‘At the club exit you will get into a car of grey colour where you will find another backpack, the keys for a villa in Hackney Wick and a cell phone which will provide contact with me, Anthea and your new shooting and combat instructor. Your current phone will be confiscated till the end of the mission,’ He crossed his arms on his chest and leaned forward in the armchair. ‘I will take care of the story for your husband.’

Mary gave a slow nod of understanding and suppressed an uneasy sigh, thinking about how much was tumbling down on the head of her unwitting John lately: quitting his favourite job, his best friend losing himself, and now his beloved wife disappearing right before the childbirth. Her husband was going nuts watching over her and taking care of their future child – he didn’t even let her cook, treating her almost like a greenhouse plant. Mary, who was used to harsher conditions, didn’t mind relishing in the comfort of a warm home and the love of a good man, on the one hand, but Mycroft wasn’t mistaken about the weight of his words: all three of them – Sherlock, John and herself – had restlessness and yearn for danger in common. All of them were people of war, and in peaceful times they didn’t fit in. That’s why, despite the flagrant inconsistency and absurdity of the situation, she rose up from the chair and reached out for a handshake which went ignored by Mycroft. He closed his eyes.

‘Goodnight, Mary.’

‘Royal reception,’ she sniffed.

Mrs. Watson, a special agent registered in the database as Nr. 570052, took her backpack from the floor, slang it on her shoulder and closed the door behind her. A little bit too sharp for a woman who agreed without complaint, Mycroft noted in the back of his mind, but the emotions raving inside her were adequate for the given circumstances, and he understood that.

‘And we shall beat our ploughshares into swords,’ the politician announced, unaware that he was echoing his subordinate’s thoughts about war, and gulped down the rest of the whiskey mixed with water from the melted ice cubes. He put his coat on, buttoned up meticulously, pulled on the gloves, took the umbrella from the stand and, after hesitating for a moment, left the club building and headed home. 

The grey Ford Explorer by the back door roared, and the annoying voice of GPS with the destination preset by Mycroft’s people recommended to turn left in two hundred meters. Mary glanced distractedly at the blinking point in the eastern part of London suburbs on the interactive map, where she was supposed to get, and stepped on the accelerator. She was running over and over in her head the text message that appeared on her new phone as soon as she got in the car:

_Study the wild people. Moriarty’s M.O. MH_

***

Gregory grimaced at the glaring lights. They were escorting the lifeless, dirty, reeking body of his friend on a wheeled stretcher through the hospital halls.

‘Why exactly do we come here every time? Doesn’t Mycroft have hoards of private doctors who could treat Sherlock at home?’ he asked.

John shrugged.

‘You know how he is. He always has his own reasons for everything and never shares,’ he answered vaguely.

Sally didn’t go to the hospital with them, allegedly because of the next day’s duty. When the ambulance arrived with the entrusted medical personnel, she patted Lestrade on the shoulder and went home, leaving Gregory and John to share grief and exhaustion by themselves. The inspector was struggling with himself to pronounce the feared word, but finally he demanded,

‘You’re a doctor, Watson, so how come you didn't notice any signs of heroin addiction? You literally live under the same roof!’

The doctor was shaking with shock, outrage, desperation and an odd irritation, and he tried his best to keep his feelings at bay when he objected,

‘You think Sherlock spends a lot of time at home? I’ve barely seen him in the last couple of months,’ he cast a pained glance on the body on the cart. ‘I’m trying to spend more time with Mary. At least she’s willing to accept my help, unlike him.’

Gregory Lestrade nodded in acknowledgement.

The nurses brought the stretcher into a single room and unloaded Sherlock Holmes onto the bed.

‘You should get some sleep,’ one of them said. ‘The patient needs...’

‘I’m a doctor, too,’ John retorted.

‘...fresh clothes, a hot shower and several hours of tight sleep,’ the nurse continued, unstirred. ‘You’d better come back tomorrow.’

John was about to snap again, but Lestrade stopped him with a firm grip on his elbow.

‘He’s right, John. We should all calm down and survive the night. Mary’s waiting for you at home.’

The tube lights in the corridors of the Princess Grace hospital, empty at this late hour, were buzzing and blinding two men in winter coats. The inspector didn’t let go of the doctor’s arm and kept him steady all the way from the ward to the doorsteps; he worried that John could raise some hell, giving in to exhaustion and long-harboured bitter resentment at his best friend who let himself sink so low. They parted at the police car without exchanging a word.

John Watson caught a cab, named his home address and wearily slumped down into the seat. His last hope to feel better rested in the thoughts about a warm bed and a hot cup of tea, away from all that filth, with Mary’s gentle kiss and soft voice saying goodnight. Once again in the long evening he closed his eyes. It was becoming a habit.

***

‘Moran? What a moron.’

He shook his head and put his hands on the table, surprisingly enough, in a non-verbal demonstration of almost complete exposure and trust.

‘You used to like him,’ Sherlock responded slyly, eyeing Jim over the tips of his fingers.

The other smiled wickedly:

‘Still troubled by the rumours about our affair at your old age, huh, honey?’

The dim light of a small cosy restaurant fell on their faces softly, deepening and accentuating the wrinkles, making the delicate outline of Holmes’ high cheekbones even more pronounced on his thin face.

Moriarty ran his fingers through his grey hair – a habit left from the times when he wouldn’t allow himself to leave home without styling his hair to perfection, – and looked out of the window, the smirk still on his face. Sherlock kicked him under the table. The landscape outside kept changing, with a pale blue mist veiling the metamorphoses, always in accordance with their shared mood.

At the moment the view presented sunlit green hills, vaguely resembling Scotland or Switzerland.

‘How crude,’ Jim huffed instantly. ‘Show some respect for my osteoarthritis!’

They exchanged mischievous looks. Their mutual unspoken understanding had grown only sharper and clearer over the time.

The carefree chitchat, almost certainly meant to decide the world’s fate in the nearest future, was suddenly interrupted.

‘Which coffee could possibly befit your taste, sir?’

The waiter’s hand hovered a couple of inches over the notepad; somehow he managed to look elegant and respectful just holding a pen. The usual grimace came across Moriarty’s face, indicating his opinion of the exaggerated courtesy of the staff.

‘Irish,’ Holmes pondered a little. ‘Actually, with gin.’

‘Irish with gin, then, sir?’

‘Are you sure you’re as good at puns as me?’ Moriarty almost smiled, the slightest rise of his eyebrows speaking of amusement and irony.

‘As long as devilishness is considered charming, yes.’

Something quite resembling perfectly normal human joy appeared on the face of Sherlock Holmes’ companion. He stretched idly in his armchair and remarked,

‘You’re improving.’

***

John took his boots off, hung the dirty coat on the hook – he didn’t have the strength to go to the basement and put in into the wash bin – and carefully tiptoed upstairs. He wasn’t afraid to wake up his wife, no: no matter how hard he tried to talk sense into her, she flat out refused to go to sleep until he was home. But he didn’t want to disrupt the fragile tranquility and warmth of the dark house by storming in with all the bad news from the outer world. Sherlock with his needle-stung arms, Mycroft clinging onto his coldness and generalisations, heroin, unemployment, hospital halls, Sally’s screams and Lestrade’s grey hair had to stay outside. The doctor cautiously opened the bedroom door and whispered,

‘Darling, I’m home.’

Nobody answered him. John turned on the light: he expected to see his beloved woman smirking, which always meant an erotic invitation, but saw an empty bed instead. He blinked and realised too late that her car, usually left in front of the garage – constant fights about her forgetting to park the small Toyota inside – wasn’t there. All the accumulated tension flooded over him at once, he grabbed a lamp from the bedside table near the switch and smashed it on the floor.

‘Go to hell, Sherlock Holmes!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Princess Grace Hospital in London.  
> 2\. No way I'm telling you what it means.


	4. On The Sordid Side

**Chapter II. On The Sordid Side**

_"The devil's finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist."_

_“Life has but one true charm: the charm of the game._

_But what if we’re indifferent to whether we win or lose?”_

_― Charles Baudelaire_

Mary collapsed on a cheap plastic chair she had earlier dragged onto the grey concrete balcony covered with flamboyant graffiti on the outside. She rested her hands on her knees and took a deep breath. A brownish-red brick house, provided by the caring and dangerous elder brother of Sherlock Holmes, was situated on the very bank of the river, just like many other buildings in this neighbourhood. If she narrowed her eyes and plugged her nose, then perhaps the view before the special agent’s eyes could muddle through and serve as an acceptable satisfaction of primitive aesthetic needs. For the time being – and Mary hoped dearly for that time to be short – she resided in the two upper floors; below, a noisy party was raging, with blotto shrieks and sounds of glass breaking occasionally reaching her ears. Something told No. 57005 that for this place it was no unfortunate deviation, but a daily routine.

Mary got up, stepped closer to the balcony’s edge, examined the surroundings for possible escape routes in case she would need to flee the temporary shelter in an inconvenient hurry, and placed both palms on her belly.

‘Pompous mingebag,’ she proclaimed into the drunken darkness, obviously meaning Mycroft, and turned around to set off into her new home in search for its quietest spot to get some sleep.

***

‘Mr. Lestrade…’ the doctor began but broke off as he met Gregory’s gaze.

The inspector frowned, his face clearly expressing pique.

‘Listen, John, for how many years do you think we’ve known each other? Cut the crap.’

Watson grew coy and didn’t quite know what to reply. His companion attempted to clear the air.

‘How’s Mary doing?’ he asked in a warm-hearted tone, hoping to redirect the conversation to a pleasant topic. ‘All hunky-dory?’

‘Oh, most certainly,’ John darkened. ‘God save the Queen.’

It was quiet in the ward, except for Sherlock’s heavy breathing and the hushed beeps of mysterious apparatuses connected to the famous detective’s body for the purposes known to his best friend only. From time to time footsteps, squeaky wheels of bypassing stretchers and doctors’ voices could be heard from the corridor; but in the room, well isolated from the outer world, Lestrade’s puzzled gaze and the unspoken question seemed to be buzzing.

‘Did something happen?’ he wondered warily.

John nodded and looked down, taking a sudden passionate interest in his own boots’ tips.

‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday’s morning,’ he admitted sotto voce. ‘She wouldn’t pick up her phone, and her car’s gone. I intend to pay-’

The doctor stuttered mid-sentence, and anger flickered in his sorrowful eyes. Gregory leaned forward in the visitor’s chair and laid his palm on Watson’s shoulder.

‘…Mycroft a visit,’ John finished, as he slightly winced from the nudge. ‘I’m touched, Gregory, but could you kindly-’

The policeman jerked his hand away, as if burned, and smiled guiltily.

‘People would talk,’ Watson murmured.

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, feeling the pain pulse in his temples and unbearable thirst build up in his throat, and immediately his face turned sour. That, however, made him look as much like his usual self as it was only possible, considering the utter improbability of the consulting detective in sound mind and memory to tolerate getting put in a ward, doomed to inactivity.

‘If,’ he wheezed, contemplating the white ceiling with a clouded gaze, ‘the two of you plan to continue in the same fashion, at least film it. What a splendid soap opera! I strongly suggest you consider using Moriarty’s services and publishing it on your blog, John. Tremendous success awaits.’

Doctor Watson, stoically letting the quip roll off his back, jumped out of his chair, got closer to his friend and exclaimed in alarm,

‘Jimmeny cricket, Sherlock! How in the world!..’

‘Whose cricket?’ Lestrade asked, but everyone ignored him.

A weary sigh escaped Holmes’s lips. He couldn’t help but wordlessly curse the loud speech that caused a powerful wave of headache.

‘I’m glad to have you back,’ shared Gregory sincerely, approaching the hospital bed from the other side. He seemed both anxious and relieved. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Try drawing a parallel between my state and your division having to deal with anything more complex than a robbery murder,’ the detective snorted.

Lestrade barely knitted his brows in response to this mickey.

‘What have I missed?’

With a wry face Holmes brusquely tore some cables off his body, casting a quick repulsed glance on the suction cups of a Holter monitor near his nipples. He sat up in the bed. Evidently, doing that cost him great effort, yet it was completely pointless to go against his stubbornness. John shook his head indignantly.

‘What have you missed?’ repeated Lestrade in a somewhat sharp tone. ‘I’m rather curious what _we_ have missed, Sherlock. Since when has the choice between morphine and cocaine lost its relevance?’

At these words, John cringed in guilt.

‘Where’s my phone?’ wondered Holmes, having paid no attention to the questions. ‘And, John, I need a glass of water.’

The doctor shrugged, filled a plastic cup and brought it to his friend, not a single word uttered. The consulting detective gulped it down and continued,

‘Let’s save all the touching scenes for later. My clothes?’

He raised his brows inquisitively.

Lestrade folded his arms.

‘Surely you don’t intend to get up and leave?’

‘That is exactly what he intends,’ John nodded.

Sherlock feigned a charming Grinch smile for a split second, but then grew serious again and hurry-scurry detached the last remaining electrodes. Shakily and painfully, holding on to the wall, he got back on his feet – Watson twitched at the sight – but kept his balance.

‘Sherlock,’ began the doctor in a warning tone, but Holmes, still wearing striped hospital pyjamas, looked down at him strictly, and John went silent.

‘My clothes,’ he demanded again.

Lestrade let out a sigh of martyrdom, peeked into the corridor, beckoned to a passing nurse and began quickly whispering something into her ear. The word ‘ministry’ fell glaringly clear.

When Sherlock Holmes regained the usual apparel, his morbid looks stroke the eye even worse.

The mobile phone turned up in the inner pocket, and at its sight the detective’s face brightened.

‘But of course!’ he declared and, without giving any of his friends a chance to speak up, legged it. Despite his state, he immediately transformed into an excited hound on the scent.

John sat down on the edge of the bed exhaustedly and looked Lestrade in the eye.

‘I doubt that Mycroft is going to like this.’

***

‘Kyle Brogan!’ Moriarty bawled.

A pale-faced blond boy in the fourth row jumped up, as if stung by a bee.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said bashfully.

‘Give me an example of a classical homeomorphism that we’ve discussed last week.’

‘Professor, I don’t…’

Such desperate horror reflected on the student's face that any outside observer would immediately feel sympathy for him. If only that observer was bold enough to contradict Professor Corcoran, of course.

Two girls from the third row took pity on the poor thing.

‘Torus1,’ they prompted in a barely audible whisper. The strict gaze of their teacher flashed above his spectacles, and the girls quieted down in awe and admiration.

Brogan, however, managed to hear something. Combining a string of associations and fantastically, for a Further Maths and IT student, useless knowledge of Scandinavian mythology, he came up with an answer.

‘Rig2, sir?’

Mischievous sparkles danced in the professor’s eyes. He revealed his hand with a puppet on it from behind his back and addressed the rag doll with exaggerated politeness,

‘How do you find it, Charlatan, shall we forgive this dashing einherjar3 one missing letter?’

Puppet turned to the student and bent sideways, pretending to ponder, its blank button eyes staring into space. Professor Corcoran slightly bowed, studying Brogan with a cartoonish look. Every now and then he would exchange a glance with Charlatan or nod, as if agreeing to some of his ideas.

‘Miss Guillain, if I were you, I would stop seducing your internet companion this instant and pay more attention to the lesson,’ said Moriarty calmly. Not for a second did he take his eyes off the exasperated Kyle Brogan.

Startled, a girl in the last row hid her mobile phone underneath the desk.

 _Muppet_ , nicknamed so for his barmy lecturing style which involved puppets as valid interlocutors, was rumored to possess almost supernatural powers, such as seeing everyone in a room simultaneously. It was positively impossible to cheat, use an online calculator or check the exact statement of a theorem without getting discovered. Professor Shay Corcoran drilled his students no worse than Scots Guards.

‘Mr. Brogan, do you drink coffee in the morning?’

The miserable boy under Moriarty’s pressure all but cried.

‘I drink tea, sir,’ he confessed in a trembling voice.

‘So very patriotic,’ the buffoon professor complimented him uppishly. ‘And what is it that you drink your tea from?’

‘A mug.’

‘If you inflated a mug made of rubber, what object would you get?’

Silence was palpable.

‘An ugly bagel, sir?’ crouched the student.

‘Bravo!’ Corcoran squawked. He looked around the lecturing hall and applauded mockingly. It was especially hilarious since poor Charlatan was still stuck on the professor’s hand: his head dangled with every clap.

‘For someone who aspires to get a Master’s degree you have a spectacular scientific vocabulary in use, Brogan. Sit’.

Moriarty fetched his breath and continued, perfectly collected and unperturbed,

‘Let us take a look at diffeomorphism for a change. Shall we?’

***

Terribly uneasy about having to move around the city like mere mortals, _on foot_ , instead of in a comfortable car with a private driver, Mycroft didn’t have the slightest idea as to where to put his hands and umbrella. Nevertheless, on he went, passing the silly goldfish in the great aquarium of London. The street was chock-a-block: strangers around him all seemed to hurry. Was it a lunch break, a date, a job interview, a court session, a funeral, a shopping mall or a library, Holmes the elder took no notice of it, for he had no need for a haste. According to meticulously checked data and agreed plans, his object of interest was to be held up in a nearby restaurant for the next half an hour.

 _Tea Terrace_ in Oxford street made it possible to remain hidden in plain sight even for a high ministry representative such as himself, despite the ridiculously expensive suit he was wearing. Mycroft got inside, made himself comfortable on one of the pastel blue seats and hid behind a book by Pamela Travers he had providently prepared. Shortly a waiter approached him, and in response to his polite greeting the politician ordered with a strong Slavic accent,

‘Sapphire Earl Grey, please, but when I’m joined by my companion. I hear you all drink tea in _Velika Britanija_.’4

That said, Holmes got back to the second chapter. It took him less than half an hour to get deadly bored – mostly because he knew the story by heart, but also because magic, especially in context of women, instigated great skepticism in him even in literature.

Finally, someone tapped on the book cover. He raised his head and met the quizzical gaze of a tall grizzled man.

‘Holmes,’ he saluted.

‘Lord Moran,’ greeted him Mycroft respectfully.

His palm twitched in the habitual gesture of invitation to take the opposing seat but stayed on his knee. It didn’t escape lord Sebastian Moran’s attention. Having settled down on an identical pastel blue chair face to face with the United Kingdom’s trademark persona, he casually crossed his legs and noted,

‘Ah, the imperial ways, you old ghostbuster?’

The two sharks of the political world exchanged ice-cold ironic glances.

‘My nostalgic memories of you prompt me that you consider a chitchat manqué, unless you kidnap your interlocutor. Do tell, what is the approximate density percentage of your people within two miles’ range?’ Moran catechized.

Mycroft shook his head,

‘Not a single agent. What about yours?’

‘I need no support group,’ the lord snorted. ‘Where would I get one, anyway? You and your brother personally took care of James Moriarty becoming a legend and me being pushed into the farthest corner on the stage. You left me to dust.’

‘Ad interim5,’ Holmes agreed. A skillful reminder of his powers boosted self-confidence, and, dignified air assumed, he went on impatiently strumming his fingers on the umbrella’s handle. ‘But off with modesty, Sebastian. I wouldn’t allow a split second of doubt that as soon as I arranged for your jail delivery, you gathered that little army of yours even before I hung up.’

The waiter brought their beverages, and, as he stopped by the table, the lord smirked and seized the teapot.

‘So, you want me to get off?’ he clarified innocently. ‘Very well, then.’

‘I believe you wouldn’t require my help, gentlemen,’ mumbled the attendant and fled.

Taken by surprise, Mycroft politely coughed and realized he was never in charge. Nothing but silent attentiveness was required of him; docile, he accepted the richly decorated cup from the lord’s hands.

‘For the sake of chinwag, should I begin with a question about your pet detective, or do we talk business?’ Sebastian Moran wondered. ‘It’s been quite a while since I last read an article about a rumor worth attention. Consequently, I have a deal for you.’

Holmes the elder portrayed polite curiosity on his aristocratic face.

‘Suppose I can…’ the lord bent over the table and blew on his companion’s tea to cool it. Then he returned to the normal sitting position. ‘…make the Eastern wind pick up?’

Both fixed their eyes on the ring that Mycroft wore on his fourth finger.

Moran proceeded, ‘All of it could come in handy for us, for _me and you_ , because the horseplay of the two is quite effective in distracting the general public from a much more substantial chess game which I would fancy getting back to. Forestalling your question, I must take cognizance of the _wild people_ posing just as much danger to me as they do to you and your precious Queen.’

Holmes raised eyebrows at him.

‘Surprised?’ Sebastian hemmed. ‘I fail to get them out of my mind, too. No doubt, you, like many others, have your suspicions about the main puppeteer’s striking return, but take my word, he has nothing to do with it.’

He played with his wristwatch for a while, clicking the clasp absentmindedly, – a wristwatch worth amounts that even Mycroft wouldn’t dare to think of. Then he took a small object out of his chest pocket with two fingers: the exact same ring as his companion’s. Moran leaned on the table and showed it to Mycroft, who turned as pale at its sight as he did when he learned about Sherlock switching to hard drugs.

‘I know my ways around gratitude,’ he said softly and intimately. ‘You are well aware of that, just as you are aware of the amount of dirt under the gloss of domestic politics.’

As he spoke, the lord allowed the ring to slowly slide on his own fourth finger, symmetrical to the way it was worn by the man he was debauching.

‘What will you say to joining forces against _Wudewasa_? I have no intention to conceal my thoughts from you, and all I can say for now is that I feel a powerful opponent behind these men. Too strong for us separately, but an equal if we hold hands.’

Sebastian’s serene yet agog expression meant that the phrase-mongering taboo had been lifted.

‘I’m with you,’ Mycroft allowed, enfolding the lord’s warm hands with both his palms. If he ever hesitated in doing so, no one could tell. ‘Am I right to hope all of this means I have deserved your forgiveness?’

‘All the King's horses, all the King's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again,’ Sebastian answered insinuatingly.

He gently freed himself from Holmes’ grasp and patted his smooth-shaven cheek. Out of the same pocket the lord produced a small card with something imprinted on its high quality paper and placed it on the table in front of Mycroft.

The politician wordlessly watched him walk out of the restaurant, watched a well-dressed driver open the door of a luxury car for him; watched the car disappear in the busy streets. He sat there for a moment, recollecting himself, as he tightened his grip on the handle of the ever-present umbrella.

The sui generis6 business card depicted an artsy Victorian-styled wind rose. Two M’s replaced North and East, while two H’s stood for South and West. A small text appeared on the reverse side of the card:

_‘A helping hand and the need of accepting it do not necessarily mean weakness. MM’_

Before returning to the solemn solitude of his daily routine, Mycroft granted the world an event that any eyewitness in the know would call epochal: he gave it a heartwarming smile.

***

As Sherlock was walking down the street, he kept bumping into passers-by without a consideration for apologies. He was focused on the mobile phone, slender fingers quickly typing a message. Again and again his mouth would water, and if at first he bothered to spit into a tissue, with time it began to dissolve, and he was forced to swallow the drool back. Constant muscle contraction made his throat sore. Eyes tearing up, forearms outrageously cramping, bones aching, Holmes felt dreadful. Everything around him seemed to be veiled under a hot haze, while he himself felt surrounded by a cloud of dank cold. One moment he’d yearn for the fresh frigid air and fretfully tear the scarf off his neck, the other – he’d hide his face behind it, desperate for some warmth.

Over the last months which have all seemingly merged into one long tormenting endless day, few things still bore their meanings. The light vibration of the new message; the short one of a pressed key. Vibrations put Holmes to sleep; vibrations kept him awake at night, when he’d sway in and out of sleep, phone in hand, dazzled by the screen light to the point of remembrance.

_‘Let’s play. SH’_

Awaiting the reply, Sherlock Holmes leaned on a nearby wall. He almost got pushed onto it by the heavy wave of air caused by a passing bus. The consulting detective torpidly thought of his own last words – and now, in the wake of the truth he wondered, who created whom?

_‘Have you got bored already?’_

_‘I’m always bored. SH’_

_‘How many do you need this time?’_

_‘Four of your best fiddlers. SH’_

_‘Stop signing every message.’_

_‘Shush! SH’_

Cramps worsened, now also twisting his legs. Growing weaker with every breath, Sherlock puffed quietly and slid down the wall. Someone noticed him and stopped by to offer help, but he scared the man away. UROD7 was beginning to wear off.

_‘How long do I have? And when do I get the script?’_

_‘Two days. Tonight.’_

The detective locked his phone and hid it in the pocket. Annoyance was soon to be taken over by the joyous foretaste of _Act I_ , and to this thought Holmes forced an inept smile through his numbing lips. He didn’t as much as flinch when he got an immediate lockjaw.

‘The nine circles of Dante,’ Sherlock mumbled to himself, ‘and a handshake in hell. A walk down the circle of fifths, a dance…’

His spirits lifted as he made the first steps towards a backstreet that welcomed him with blessed purity of silence.

‘A Danse Macabre.’

Half an hour later Sherlock Holmes sat on a leather sofa, stripped of his famous coat, barefoot and with a syringe in hand. He had a trouser leg rolled up, he had it all under control, and he was happy. The only thing he still needed was _a professional opinion_.

‘The stage,’ he murmured. ‘The curtain...’

He carefully let the needle pierce the skin.

‘Re-Mi-La-Re.’8

Then he closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A mathematical term, meaning... well, exactly somewhat of a bagel. Or, as Moriarty states later, a ring.  
> 2\. A Scandinavian God; however, it requires lots of imagination to mistake him for Thor.  
> 3\. [Norse mythology] A warrior who has made it with the help of Valkyries to Valhalla by honourably dying in a battle.  
> 4\. 'Great Britain' in Serbian.  
> 5\. [Latin] 'For the time being'. Brace yourselves for an inappropriate amount of Latin.  
> 6\. [Latin] 'One of a kind'.  
> 7\. UROD stands for Ultra Rapid Opioid Detoxication; it is a method of cleansing used in treating drug addiction.  
> 8\. Give it a thought.

**Author's Note:**

> The keys to all the cryptograms and puzzles featured in the text will be provided upon the fanfic's completion. Until then, welcome to the game.


End file.
